Legally Dead (21 page)

Had the killer used a gun, a baseball bat, or his bare hands the story would not have made national news. What made the murder sensational was the weapon: a garrote, a thirty-two-inch nylon cord with wooden knobs, a commando-style tool of death not seen in the United States for more than twenty years, according to the FBI.

Danny's relentless channel surfing had paused on a Fox News exclusive, a man garroted in the stairwell of a four-star hotel.

“Don't see many of those these days,” he said thoughtfully.

The camera focused for a moment on the anguished features of a middle-aged blonde described as the victim's widow. She saw it, covered her face, and turned away, but not quickly enough.

Venturi had glanced up from his desk at Danny's comment. He sprang to his feet.

“You see that?” he whispered hoarsely.

“See what?” Danny said.

“The woman. She looked a helluva lot like Angelo Conte's wife. Her name's Celia.”

He joined Danny in front of the television, studying the screen, willing the woman who was being helped to a car by two young men to turn around.

She did, just enough for him to see her profile clearly for a moment.

“That
is
her!” Venturi sounded alarmed. “What the hell's happening? Is that Portland?”

Danny nodded. “It's probably not her. You could only see her for a second. You can't be sure.”

“Nine and three-quarters on a scale of ten. I relocated him, his wife, and two teenage sons to Oregon almost two years ago. He testified in a major racketeering and public corruption case in Philly.”

“Holy shit,” Danny said. “If you're right, this ain't good news. In fact,” he placed his palm to his forehead and closed his eyes, “my psychic abilities predict that you are about to hear from men in suits who work for the federal government. Time to lie low and circle the wagons, goombah.”

Fox went to another story. Danny flicked to CNN, then MSNBC. Nothing more on the case. Yet.

“What the hell?” Venturi looked bewildered. “I don't get it. What went wrong?”

“What was that on the television, boys?” Victoria asked affably.

“Nothing important,” Danny said without making eye contact.

The two men retired to the war room without further comment as she and Keri stared.

“That was rude,” Keri murmured.

“Something's up,” Victoria said. “If so, we'll know soon enough.”

Danny slumped in a chair at the oval conference table. “Think this hit is related to the Minneapolis homicide? Were Conte and DelVecchio both on the same mobsters' hit parade?”

“Their cases were totally unrelated,” Venturi said, shaking his head. “DelVecchio and Conte weren't associates. I doubt they even knew each other. They only had one common denominator: me. I worked with them both.”

They stared at each other.

“How many in the Marshals Service had access to their new identities and locations?” Danny asked.

“Three—four tops. But I worked with different agents and prosecutors on each of those cases. That narrows it down to me.”

Danny's expression grew increasingly serious.

“They were my cases,” Venturi said. “I probably know more about them than anybody in the Marshals Service and more than their immediate families. DelVecchio's wife, for instance, didn't know that WITSEC also relocated his mistress to Minneapolis. I should call the office, find out what's going on, and offer to help.”

“Don't do it, man,” Danny warned. “Don't poke a rattlesnake with a stick or kick a sleeping tiger.”

“But I need to find out what the hell's happening. A preemptive strike is better than sticking my head in the sand and hoping it all goes away. Doesn't a lack of interest make me look more suspect?”

“Damned if you do and damned if you don't,” Danny said. “If you do talk to them, they won't tell you a damn thing. And they'll twist whatever you say to use against you.”

“But…”

“
Omertà,
man. Silence is golden.”

“If I offer to unload everything I know about the victims, it might help the investigation.”

“You have an inflated opinion of your own importance. What do you know?
Nada,
zilch, zero. You've had no contact with either of them lately. Who knows what worlds of crap they got into? Not you. Let's hope the local cops identify the killers as unrelated badass robbers or trigger-happy hometown hoods who had no clue who they were whacking.”

“How likely is that?” Venturi said derisively.

Danny shrugged. “Until we hear different, we can hope.”

“Hope is disappointment delayed,” Venturi said. “If the press learns that two protected witnesses were hit, the program will be in chaos.”

“Witnesses sure won't run to join it. It'll be a front-page scandal, bro.” Danny shook his head somberly. “News like that can't stay secret long. The feds are scrambling for a scapegoat as we speak. And man, if no better target pops up on the horizon—tag, you're it.”

“Jesus, Danny.”

“Maybe you should talk to a lawyer.”

“Oh, sure.” Venturi rubbed his forehead with his palm. “Nothing like lawyering up to make you look innocent.”

“Sometimes a little legal advice will clarify a situation. Listen to me, man. You know—”

They stopped abruptly as Keri popped her head into the room. “Gotta go,” she said cheerfully, her smile fading at their expressions. “I'm heading to the hospital.”

“Okay, I'll call you later,” Venturi said. He didn't get up. Danny was preoccupied, pacing.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“I'll call you later,” Venturi repeated shortly.

She closed the door quietly without another word.

Danny stopped pacing, sat on the corner of Venturi's desk, and lowered his voice. “So, where were you, man, when somebody used DelVecchio for target practice then dropped him off a high bridge? What's your alibi, bro? Isn't that about the time you took a little day trip to Jamaica? What do you say when they start asking questions about that? And now Conte. Your alibi is that you were driving
who
to the airport?”

“You're right,” Venturi said. “I'd jeopardize us all.”

“Only use prepaid cells to call anybody, especially me, from now on.”

“Right.”

“And watch your back.”

Danny rumbled out of the driveway on his Harley a short time later.

That evening, for the first time, Venturi encouraged Victoria in her hunt for an apartment. She responded calmly, but he saw the hurt in her eyes. He had nearly persuaded her to stay on. They were like family. They
were
family.

Her son, Sidney, had somehow posted bond and was now harassing her with angry calls. He was demanding that she return to New York, that she drop charges, that he speak to Venturi. “He's irrational and furious,” she said.

Venturi had more important problems than Sidney to think about and simply suggested she stop answering his calls.

It was midnight when Scout began to bark. The buzzer at the gate sounded moments later.

“It's me,” Keri said over the intercom. “I'm sorry it's so late. But I have someone I want you, Vicki, and Danny to meet.”

“Danny's been gone for hours. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

There was a painful pause. “No,” she finally replied. “There may not be one.”

None of this is her fault, he told himself, and what she said made him curious. “I'll make coffee. Drive on up.”

At the sound of voices, Vicki stepped out of her bedroom wearing a bathrobe. Her eyes looked puffy.

“Sorry,” he said. “Keri's back. Someone's with her.”

“I wasn't asleep, dear.”

“Can you join us? I'm making coffee.”

“Make mine decaf. I think there's some pie left, and a banana loaf in the freezer.”

The woman with Keri was slightly built, young and dark-haired, with huge, frightened eyes and a silk scarf wrapped around her throat, almost to her chin.

Keri introduced her as Maheen. As they settled around the kitchen table, Keri explained that a hospital administrator had helped bring Maheen to Miami from New York and had arranged a job for her in the records department. But now she was unable to go to work.

“Maheen's family is Iranian,” Keri said. “And her parents still cling to the old ways, the traditions of their homeland. Many of those traditions are against the law here, but they practice them nonetheless.”

The girl took a single sip of coffee but did not touch the pie Vicki offered. Eyes downcast as Keri spoke, she bit her oddly puckered lower lip, her hands folded in her lap.

“Maheen is American,” Keri continued, “the only member of her family born here. She went to high school in Paramus, New Jersey. Her parents didn't allow her to attend dances, proms, pajama parties, or football games. She was forbidden to date or learn to drive. They insisted she quit school at age sixteen. She rebelled at that. She wanted to graduate with her class and hoped for a college scholarship. She didn't want to wear a head scarf like her mother and older sister. Her family situation became more tense when she took a job at a department store, at the cosmetics counter. When she was eighteen she met a boy, an American boy, and began seeing him, despite her parents' often violent objections.

“They demanded she quit the job and forbade her to see the boy again. She said she was American and wanted to live like an American girl. The clash of cultures was inevitable.” Keri sighed and reached for the girl's hand.

“On a freezing night last January, her boyfriend drove her home from work so she wouldn't have to take a bus. Her parents and older brothers were waiting. The boy, a premed student, was beaten so severely that he was comatose for three weeks.”

Tears flooded Maheen's eyes and began to spill over.

“The young man survived,” Keri said, “but he's severely brain damaged. Maheen's family dragged her into the house. Her mother and oldest brother held her down while her father tried to disfigure her with acid.”

Victoria gasped.

“He tried to throw it into her face and eyes, but she struggled so violently that it splashed onto her throat and breasts instead,” Keri continued.

She gently murmured something in the girl's ear. Maheen nodded, then sat motionless, without lifting her eyes, as Keri unwrapped the scarf from her throat.

Venturi's gut tightened. Vicki began to cry.

The burn scars were horrendous. Although only her throat was exposed, it was clear that the burns extended down the front of her body. Miraculously, just a tiny drop of acid had struck her face, puckering her lower lip, Keri explained.

Neighbors called the police. Maheen was still struggling, screaming in fear and pain when they kicked in the front door. Her father was attacking her with a ball-peen hammer, as the rest of the family helped him.

“Had the police not intervened, she would have been killed,” Keri said. “Had the acid struck her face and eyes as intended, she would have been permanently blinded and brutally disfigured.

“The father, the family patriarch, devoutly believes that all he did wrong was fail to finish the job.” Yet the prosecution hit a snag when the brain-damaged boy was unable to testify and Maheen's family was released on bond.

She was hospitalized and terrified. Once released, she went into hiding.

The girl picked up her scarf and covered her scars as Keri continued to speak. That was when Venturi saw that her right hand, which she'd kept concealed in her lap, was also shriveled and scarred, burned by the acid as she fought her attackers.

Her father and brothers were convicted of reduced assault charges and served brief sentences.

The parents were indignant that anyone, including the police, had interfered in a family matter. They believed they had every right to do what they did.

“They feel disgraced, that her disobedience has stained the family honor. In their eyes there is only one way to restore it: they have to kill her.”

Keri studied their faces, lingering the longest on Venturi's, before continuing.

“A victim's advocate, a social worker at the hospital where she was treated, helped her. She came to Miami, worked at the hospital, shared an apartment with another girl, and was doing beautifully”—Keri put a protective arm around the girl's narrow shoulders—“until last week. That was when she saw her father and her oldest brother watching the building where she lives.

“They will kill her if they can, then claim it was their duty to do so. She needs our help.”

They both knew exactly what Keri meant. She eagerly watched their faces, eyes expectant.